And One For The Road
by chronically radioactive
Summary: The Lucky 38 gang is going their separate ways after the victory at the Dam, and New Vegas' liberation and take over by the Courier. Boone realizes he needs to act on his feelings for the Mojave's savior before it's too late. M for Wasteland sexytimes.
1. Chapter 1

_a/n: Another tumblr prompt. Enjoy~!_

* * *

He really begins to notice her after Bitter Springs. They're bleeding, sweaty, and too many innocents are dead, but there's something about victory that gets his blood boiling. When the last Legionnaire falls and she throws her rifle to the ground, whooping and hollering triumphantly, all he wants to do is scoop her up, swing her around, and _thank her_.

"You must have gotten knocked upside the head, Baldy." she'd tease, would probably lift up her sleeve, slip off his beret, and cheekily "shine" the top of his head. She would ignore his hints, might even laugh them off. She never seemed to take anything seriously. But he was fond of that.

The first couple of weeks were absolute torture, traveling with the inexperienced woman. Thanks to the bullet fragments lodged in her brain, her sight isn't too great, and she wouldn't be able to hit a Deathclaw in the face if it was three inches in front of her.

Not like he'd let one get that close.

The Courier was loud, asked too many questions, and everything that Carla could have never been. She was brutally honest, socially awkward, and vulgar where his wife had acted poised, sophisticated and tasteful - but he couldn't (couldn't _want_ her) imagine her any other way.

Sure, she was a little too trusting, a bit skittish in a firefight, and rushed into debates and conflicts without thinking, but there was also that endearing, honest smile she flashed him from time to time that made him think that with such a candid, sweet woman around, the world couldn't be that terrible.

But he knew otherwise, and despite wanting to forget, to just let go, she wouldn't let him, wouldn't let herself. The Mojave had dished the both of them its worse, and for some reason or another, they'd both managed to hold on to reality.

With all they've been through...

Yeah, of course Boone's thought about her in _that_ way. He'd berated himself about it, but got himself off on the idea a few times even, yet there are a few significant events that trigger something deeper, something closer to what he felt for Carla, but entirely...different. It _was_ Six afterall.

Six with her innocently pretty Hispanic features, that sexy, curvy waist, and an attitude to boot.

The thought that he could have _feelings_ for someone other than Carla sometimes makes him cringe...but although he knows Carla wouldn't want him to be unhappy, there's just something strange with moving on to a woman like the Courier. Not that he would mind, _God_ no.

First time he feels physically attracted to her is on that fateful night in Novac, when she slips his beret on, when she takes the splatter of Jeannie May's blood across her face with a tired, knowledgeable silence. The second time comes not soon after - when she rolls the headless, mutilated corpse into a hole she digs herself, telling him that no matter the person, everyone deserves some kind of burial.

Third is Bitter Springs.

That memory is the clearest, the most lucid, the most special to him. He can shut down, can picture it against the dark canvas of his eyelids. They sit on Coyote Tail Ridge for hours, him processing what seems to be the end of his torment, and her acting as an anchor for stability, sitting next to him, silent for one of the first times in her life. At one point she returns with two packs of stale beer in her hands, handing him a few bottles and raising one of her own up towards the stars.

Rex is nestled against his leg, sleeping soundly despite the number of Legion throats he had ripped open. She turns to him after a few quiet hours, gives him that bright smile he will always compare to the dazzling lights of New Vegas in the distance, and carefully gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Fourth time he begins to feel that particular warm, burning sensation for her is right now, staring across the dining table in the Lucky 38 at her pretty, Wasteland-roughened face.

"Three days," she murmurs, swirling a glass of old whiskey with one of the kitchen's lackluster silver spoons.

He looks up from cleaning his Anti-Material Rifle, the one she had order personally from the Gun Runners for him, and raises an eyebrow behind his aviators.

"Giving a warning for the end of the world?" he asks, and she sighs, cupping her jaw in a gloved hand warily. Despite her twenty-three years, the baby fat of her cheeks pushes up under her palm in a way he finds strangely, endearingly fuckable.

She sighs again, and this time it's accompanied by a familiar, cheeky twist of her lips, yet still with an honest-to-God sadness. She waves an arm around the 38's kitchen dramatically.

"End of our world, at least."


	2. Chapter 2

_a/n: Here's moarrr. Enjoy._

* * *

Boone snorts and shrugs his shoulders. There has been more than one occasion when he thought his world was ending – obviously Carla's disappearance, her death, those _months_ he spent Novac nursing bottles of whiskey…But this isn't one of them. Sure, the group is close, and it's basically become his family, but the Courier is the only one he has strong feelings for.

He'll miss the others, but the notion of falling into depression because they're split up for awhile is just a bit silly.

"I'm fucking serious," Six says, crossing her arms again, blowing a lock of hair from her eyes indignantly. He glances up, taking in her appearance with unintentionally hungry eyes – her arms accentuate the gratuitous curves of her chest, and she's somehow able to look feminine even with the dangerously frustrated glare she's giving him.

Ever since she found the Pre-War pinup magazine under one of the beds in the presidential suite, she's been wearing her hair in the same elaborately coiffed, wavy style of the models in it. The dark curls hang around her face in a teasing flip, brushing her exposed collarbone and shoulders. He wants to groan and push them away, wants to reveal more of that scared, battle-torn, tanned skin, wants to bring his palm lower…

_Stop it._

Boone crosses his legs under the table uncomfortably, irked at how easily just focusing on her for a few seconds fazehim.

"Yeah," he says, and then winces. She doesn't like one word responses.

"Shit, Boone," she huffs, reaching out to take snatch away the rifle from his hands. He lets go easily, watching her set it against the oven with a huff. "Really, this is not the time."

She holds up a fist, counting off her fingers as she speaks. "It's not funny," she mutters, and her downcast expression forces him to sit up straighter, to look her in the eyes.

"Pretty soon it'll just be me and Rex," she says, and her voice breaks as she speaks. He didn't realize she was so passionate and distraught over the whole affair, but then again, it _is_ Six. She's passionate about most everything.

"A dog can't help me run a city," she whispers, now dropping her eyes to the table, and stares at the chess board They've been playing a game of bottlecap checkers for the past half hour, and she's dangerously close to beating him and making him fork over the winnings. Six jumps _three_ of his caps, and then kings the piece.

"Arcade's gone, already helping patch up soldiers at the Fort, I bet," she says nonchalantly.

"Veronica and ED-E are heading back to the Brotherhood, Cass and Raul went to sign up for a caravan run to New Canaan…even Lily is going back to Jacobstown to help the Doc out," this time she trails off, looks back up at him with a terribly torn, forlorn expression.

She's trying to say something, he realizes, but instead is squirming uncomfortably. Usually she's got too much to say, and it's unnerving to see her at a loss, especially for words.

"_You're_ fucking re-enlisting tomorrow..."

It's surprisingly bitter, laced with a malice he hasn't heard since she confronted Benny at Caesar's fort – and, despite all the difficult decisions she's had to make by herself the past months, has _never_ seen the terrible look of indecision that's written so plain as day across her pretty features.

"Yeah?"

He decided it a long time ago. It was after Bitter Springs, after they had sat under the stars, in complete silence for hours. He'd thought about a lot; thought about the Legion, thought about Carla, thought about the future, thought about _her_…thought about joining up with First Recon again.

Fought with her at the Battle, but had felt like a true NCR soldier again, and for the first time in a long time, he had felt _proud_ of himself. Probably hadn't been a wise idea to keep it a secret from Six, but he'd snuck out to see Hsu a week after the city was firmly in her grasp.

Of course she'd found out, though, he'd been stupid to think she wouldn't. She had control of the surrounding area and the settlers living in it, especially wary of the NCR's presence.

Boone smiles a bit, only slightly, remembering the bitchfit she'd thrown.

Six stands up, inky hair bouncing as she slams her hands on the table. She's mistaken his grin for a smirk, for a cheeky refusal for more information. He stands up as well, holding up a hand, opening his mouth to tell her to calm down.

She points a finger at him, wagging it like he's a child. Her looming fury, for whatever reason, makes his pants even tighter, and he sits back down in a hurry so she won't notice.

"Are you…fuck you! Just fuck you, Craig Boone," she whispers, words outlined with a delicious double meaning. He smiles again, and her dark brown eyes narrow further. Her lips part in what begins as a scream, but dies out as a furious whimper.

As she slams her chair in, marches around the table, and storms out into the suite's lobby, Boone can hear her muttering in frustrated, upset Spanish. He feels bad, but then again, she is over-reacting.

"I'm going to bed!" she announces childishly, as if it wasn't obvious enough, and he hears the old door to her room slam.

Rex trots into the room not longer after, coming over to him, plopping down at his feet, and looking just plain rejected…and _pissed_. He levels his harsh, accusatory gaze at Boone, and the sniper figures he must have been kicked off Six's bed.

"Sorry, pal," he offers, but Rex just lets his jaw fall onto his paws, and whines.

"Jack-shit I'm gonna do. Expect me to pat her on the back?" Rex says nothing, of course, because he's a fucking dog.

A few minutes pass, and suddenly the emotional severity of the situation hits him. Only people she's ever gotten really close to, as far as he knows, is the small family she's pulled together _herself_ . She's done a lot for them, for him, has helped them clear the troubles in their lives.

And now they're leaving her, splitting up her little family, won't be considered a _together_ for a long time. Boone realizes how it must feel – _knows_ how it feels - to lose loved ones.

And that aching, heavy depression after losing his family…that's what she managed to pull him out of.

_Should at least repay the favor. Woman saved your life. _

Boone stands determinedly and leaves the room. Rex lifts his head, eyes following one of his masters out the door, and then jumps up to snatch the deliciously mouthwatering Brahmin steak that's left unguarded on the table.

He knocks on the door twice, and each time, he can hear the volume on Six's TV being turned up. He recognizes an episode of the only Pre-War series that airs, thinks back to the time they fixed the broadcasting building's connection, got a few channels up and running for the Wasteland.

He knocks harder this time, watching the little room number nameplate on the door swing on an unsteady nail.

"_Six_. Open the goddamn door," he demands, and hears footsteps not a moment later. She must be pressing her ear to the door.

"Noo-o," she says, drawing out the word with such a tone of indignant, childish, "_I'm angry at you," _obviousness that he can't help but to smile a little.

"Please?"

The door opens with a deliberate slowness, and the Courier looks up at her traveling companion, makeshift bodyguard, and…best friend. There's a look of admiration on her face, but it's quickly replaced by an angrily raised eyebrow, expectantly narrowed eyes, and arms crossed with more than just a hint of attitude. _God_, he just wants her.

So, before she has a chance to berate him, he grabs her by the shoulders, pushes her back gently. She makes a small huff of annoyance, but allows the movement, turning her face downwards to watch her steps, watch where she's going.

When she swings her head back up to judge his expression, he takes the opportunity to crash his lips against hers, desperately grabbing for her soft, curvy hips, and stumbling in an effort to get their bodies closer.


	3. Chapter 3

_a/n: Yes, it's shorter than the other two chapters. ...Yes, I am torturing y'all. Enjoy! (:_

* * *

He's sure as hell not about to tell her what he wants to say, what he feels like he _should_ say. It's just not like him to be emotional and explanatory, and definitely not in his nature to be talkative, God _forbid_. So Boone tries to convey all of his feelings, all of these things he wants her to know, in this heavy kiss.

She's not the most intelligent woman in the Wastes, thought she's sure as hell been smart enough to shift the balance of power in Vegas, and for that she gets his respect. He's always had a thing for her commanding, powerful personality, the way the Wasteland has bent itself to her will.

And while she technically _is _a traitor to the NCR, he'll never get the memory of Six talking her way into General Olliver's head, convincing him to leave Vegas, telling him she'd be taking over – hell, he can even recall that confident, sexy tone of voice...

Boone groans, grips her her hips a little tighter, and slips his tongue against hers. She _whimpers, _actually _whimpers_, and tries to tilt her head back, to speak, to ask him what the _fuck_ is going on, but he just snaps forward and catches her lips.

He tugs her closer and stops moving his feet, careful to keep their balance as she stumbles at his sudden halt.

They have to come up for air, unfortunately, and she's noticeably flustered and breathless and she pulls away slightly frustrated. Instead of displaying surprise or anger or any other emotion he _needs_ to see on her face, Six just stares at him. Some of the red lipstick from her lips is smeared across the bottom of her chin, across her cheek.

Boone lifts his own hand, wipes away the crimson stain slowly, pleased at the way her eyes follow his finger.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" she demands after he drops his arm, hands flying to her lips. He holds up his palms, ready to calm her if she gets really angry, if she wants to throw something, because he's seen her temper in all of its terrifying glory before.

"I think you know."

That certainly doesn't help. Six starts pacing, using her hands as wind milling additions to her rambling.  
"Sure, okay, let's play fucking mind games. Let's complicate things and do shit I would have _liked_ to do now and let's not even bother to reason that _okay,_ you are one seriously emotionally addled soldier."

He takes a little offense to that last part, but shrugs.

"I don't _know_. Why now? Why would you do this now?" she demands, and it's strangely emotional, the way her eyes start tearing up. He's only seen her cry once, the time she came back from the Divide a week after she entered, when she entered the 38 and just went to her bedroom and sobbed for hours.

Boone feels bad, but he can't say that to her, because what good would "I feel bad" do for the situation? Instead he marches forward and pulls her into a hug, hopefully conveying all he really needs to. He looks at the double bed, the golden Pre-War flag pole mounted above it, the reading glasses on the bedside table.

Six slowly wraps her arms around his ribcage, leans into the hug a little, and this feeling of comfort – of content – washes over him. "Okay, well fuck. If you're sure, can we just…you know," she mutters into his shoulder, and he can't _not_ laugh at her impatience, even now.

"Yeah."

Six lifts her head eagerly, obviously hoping for another kiss, but Boone drops his lips to her neck, brushes away her dark hair with his fingers, and hums contentedly. She squirms a little, trying to step backwards towards the bed, but he just continues his assault on that elegant column of skin, biting and kneading with his tongue until she pushes him away again.

"Okay, stop it. I'm really in a hurry, so _come on,_" she demands, slipping her hands from around his neck to his chest and grabbing the cotton of his t-shirt, leading him back. Boone complies, especially because he catches a hint of that tell-tale, promising smirk on her pretty lips, and leans forward to catch them between his again.

She pulls her head back just enough to stop him from reaching her, but opens her mouth and stops moving. For a second, their breaths mingle, and he's driven crazy by the proximity of her face and her darting brown eyes and expectant grin.


End file.
